Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
by Christopher A. Poole
Summary: It's been one year since the Turtles defeated the Shredder and avenged their master Hamato Yoshi. They thought him dead, but now he's back, and with a slew of deadly new allies. Can the Turtles, with the help of their new friend April O'Neil, put an end to the Shredder once and for all, and save New York City from utter disaster?


**Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles**

By Christopher Poole

 **Chapter I**

Eric Sacks had almost made it out of the country. His private jet had been fueled, manned, and standing by at LaGuardia, ready to whisk him away to China or Russia or any other such country without an extradition treaty with the United States. Unfortunately, the police had anticipated this move and had intercepted him, arresting him on the tarmac and humiliating him in front of his deliberately sexy young stewardesses.

"They're gonna tear you up in prison, pal," said the officer gripping Sacks' right elbow, as he and his partner led the wealthy fugitive back out through the terminal. "Even cons don't take kindly to traitors."

Sacks remained silent. He hadn't become rich and powerful by being stupid. The moment they arrived at police headquarters he'd call in his whole team of lawyers. Until then, he'd keep his mouth shut.

Sacks and his escort had just exited the terminal and arrived in the larger, non-secure area of the airport when they were approached abruptly from one side by a lean, angular, dark-haired man in a dark suit and sunglasses. The man stepped directly into their path and identified himself with the flash of a badge.

"Agent Bishop, FBI," he said, making sure that each of the officers got a good look at his credentials. "I'm to congratulate you on your capturing of the suspect, and to request that you now turn him over to my custody."

The officers looked at each other, and sighed.

"Of course, that's really not a request at all," said one of the officers, as he freed Sacks from his handcuffs and shoved him over to Agent Bishop.

"I'm afraid not," Bishop smiled amiably, as he produced his own pair of handcuffs and bound Sacks anew. "But don't worry. I'll see to it that you still get full credit for the arrest."

"Waterboard the creep once for me," said the other officer.

"Well, that's the CIA, but I'll see what I can do," said Bishop, with a nod and a grin, as he situated himself behind Sacks and began steering him towards a nearby down escalator. "Come now, Mr. Sacks. We've a long trip ahead of us."

* * *

The trip, as it turned out, was not that long. Once down the stairs, around the corner, and out of sight of the police officers, Agent Bishop invited Sacks to take a seat on a cushioned bench while he produced the key to the handcuffs and once again freed Sacks from bondage.

"Believe it or not, Mr. Sacks, today is your lucky day," said Bishop. "If you play it smart, and if you make the right decisions here, you needn't be placed under arrest at all."

Sacks looked up at Bishop, quizzically, then sneered.

"You want to make a deal, is that it?" he practically spat. "You want me to grovel and beg and pledge my undying fealty to you in exchange for a little leniency? Well, blow me, you lackey! You've got nothing on me! Nothing that'll stick! I've got the money to buy literally anything, and I have people who will _eat_ evidence if I order them to, so bring it on!"

In response to this brief tirade, Bishop only smirked and shook his head.

"You misunderstand, Mr. Sacks," he said. "I'm not trying to get you on the hook. In fact, I'm not even here in my official capacity as an FBI agent. I'm simply doing a favor for a friend."

"What friend?" asked Sacks, warily.

"You have a fairy godfather, Mr. Sacks," said Bishop, extending a hand to help Sacks up. "But don't tell him I called him that. Come. I'll take you to meet him."

* * *

Sacks' fairy godfather was sitting alone at a table just inside the airport's Cafe le Fancie, and even from across the food court, Sacks was getting an unmistakably sinister vibe from the stranger.

"That's him?" asked Sachs.

"Don't be shy," said Bishop. "Go say hello."

"I don't like the look of him," said Sacks.

"Oh, don't worry," said Bishop. "He may seem cold and off-putting on the surface, but once you get to know him he's a piece of shit."

Sacks grumbled, but did what was expected of him and strode confidently over to the table to meet his benefactor.

"I understand I have you to thank for my narrow escape this morning," he began.

The stranger's thin lips curled into a smile completely devoid of warmth, and he rose from his seat and extended his hand in greeting. Sacks felt an almost instinctive need to pull away, as if from a serpent, but he tamped the feeling down and took the man's hand in his.

The man was decidedly Asian – probably Japanese – though, at well over six feet in height, he stood abnormally tall for his race, and the body that swelled against the black business suit was impressively toned and muscular, like that of a professional athlete. His hands were hard and calloused, Sacks noticed, and his dark hair was cropped close to his scalp. The eyes were the most striking thing, though. Narrow and cruel, and black as flint.

Sacks reflected that this was what writers and novelists so often referred to as a 'dark man'.

"Mr. Eric Sacks," the man, still smiling, finished shaking Sacks' hand and gestured for him to take the seat opposite his. "I'm very pleased to meet you. My name is Oroku Saki. I have some business I would like to discuss with you."

"I don't suppose we could go somewhere a little more private," said Sacks, glancing nervously around. "As you're aware, the police are looking for me right now."

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Saki. "My people are around. If trouble comes, we'll be gone from here before it finds us. Do you mind if I eat?"

"What?"

Saki gestured to the steaming hot bowl that had been sitting in front of him the entire time.

"I'm afraid I'm having a late breakfast," he said. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No, no, by all means," said Sacks, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But would you please just tell me what this is all about?"

"Well, it's related to your current trouble, as a matter of fact," said Saki, after partaking of a spoonful of soup. "Your company, Sacks Industries, has a contract to produce weapons for the U.S. Army, correct?"

"Yes," said Sacks, warily.

"And you've also been given license to salvage and experiment with the weaponry and technology left behind by the defeated Triceraton forces."

"We've made some very interesting advances," said Sacks.

"Yes, I'm quite sure you have," said Saki, taking in another spoonful of soup. "And you've been selling them to terrorist groups, foreign governments, and anyone else willing to pay."

"Allegedly," said Sacks.

"I can offer you protection from the law," said Saki, ignoring the qualifier. "All I ask in return is that you grant me full and total access to all of your 'interesting advances', as you put it."

"To what end?" Sacks dared to ask.

Saki ate another spoonful, then dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

"That, too, may come in time," he said. "For now, however, that falls outside of your need to know."

"And if I say no, you call over your little FBI friend and I end up sharing a bunkbed in maximum security with some rough trick named Bubba," Sacks surmised.

The spoon in his mouth, Saki nodded.

"Well, then, it looks like we have a deal, Mr. Saki," said Sacks.

"Excellent," said Saki. "Just let me finish up here, and then I'll take you along to see my operation. I think you're going to like it."

"Just what is it that you're eating, anyway?" asked Sacks, pointing to the bowl. "It smells vaguely familiar, but I just can't place it."

"Turtle soup," said Saki, with a grin. "Want some?"

 **Chapter II**

As New York City's largest local broadcasting affiliate, with skyscraper headquarters overlooking Times Square, Channel 6 was abuzz day and night with frantic activity, and the hours between five A.M. and noon were the most frenzied of all. Every morning the thirty-third, thirty-fourth, and thirty-fifth floors (the floors dedicated to processing and reporting the news) were a beehive of unrelenting chaos; a swelling sea of human flesh straining against cheap suits and sweat-stained shirts and screaming like a singular mass from an H.P. Lovecraft horror tale.

And April O'Neil loved it.

As she zigged and zagged gracefully through the heaving throng of newsmen, personal assistants, and harried interns, bearing aloft a cardboard tray full of coffees with all the flawless skill of a rollerskating carhop, April reveled in the mayhem. Her friends at journalism school had all salivated at the prospect of going to write for _Vanity Fair_ or _The New Yorker_ , but not April. Not for her the hoity-toity fashion column in _Cosmopolitan_ , nor even the self-important social commentary of _The New York Times_. No, April wanted to get her hands dirty. April wanted the bloody, blue collar butchery of hard, fast news. April wanted _trench warfare_. She had found that Channel 6 provided that in spades, and though most of the younger employees always had an eye towards moving on to bigger and better things, April, at age twenty-eight, wasn't planning on going anywhere.

"Wednesday morning, guys!" she declared, as she pirouetted through the final clutch of squawking co-workers and came to arrive at the desk of her best friend Irma Langenstein, secretary to Charles Pennington, head of news division. "Coffee's on me!"

April set the coffee tray down on the cluttered desk, and Irma – a mousy little thing with glasses too big for her face and hair too big for the decade – took the cup with her name (misspelled) on it. Vernon Fenwick – a senior reporter in his mid-thirties, and April's other close friend at Channel 6 – was perched on the corner of the desk, tie loose and shirt collar open. He, too, helped himself to one of the cups.

"Bernyon," he read the name scrawled in Sharpie on the side of his cup. "They're getting better."

"So, what's new with my two fellow musketeers this morning?" asked April, taking the third cup for herself and popping off the lid to blow on it. "Oh, my gosh, Vern, did you hear about that whole thing with Eric Sacks?"

"White collar stuff," said Vernon. "Lower grade crime is my beat. Ask me who turned up in the Hudson last night with cement in his shoes."

"Who?"

"Mugsy McGuffin, that's who."

"No way!" Irma exclaimed. "Pinky McFingers' nephew?"

"And you know there's going to be repercussions for _that_ ," said Vernon. "The boy was an idiot and a liability, but he was still family. Pinky won't let that go. If you both take my advice, you'll stay out of Italian restaurants for a while."

"Well, that plays in perfectly with the angle I'm working," said April. "The more violent the gangs get, the more likely we are to see increased mutant activity."

"This again," Vernon rolled his eyes as he took a sip of coffee.

"My theory is that some are working for the mobs and fighting amongst each other, while others are unaffiliated, and even fighting the mobs from the outside," said April. "The evidence definitely points towards a 'crime versus crimefighters' type of correlation."

"Evidence, she says," Vernon scoffed. "As if you've uncovered any viable evidence to begin with."

"April, you must realize how ridiculous this all sounds," said Irma, trying to be more diplomatic. "I know you've put a lot of time and work into this, but you can't expect people to bite on the idea that there's a whole sub-culture of human-animal hybrids living among us."

"How did you even arrive at the idea of mutants, anyway?" asked Vernon. "Why not space aliens?"

"Because we've already had space aliens, and these aren't them," said April, thrusting her open coffee cup authoritatively forward. "I'm telling you, they're out there. I may not know what they are exactly, but I've tracked down enough leads to know that I'm onto something hot! This is going to be the story of the decade, and you'll be eating your words when I...oh, drat, I spilled coffee on my jumpsuit!"

While April drew a Kleenex from the box on Irma's desk and began dabbing at the fresh stain just below her collarbone, Vernon and Irma exchanged bemused glances.

"April, there's something we've both been wondering about," said Irma. "For the past couple of months now, you've been coming into work everyday in those weird yellow jumpsuits. One day everything was normal, then suddenly you start walking around like you're on your way to a comic convention."

"Like a sexy HAZMAT worker," Vernon added.

"For your information, these jumpsuits make me many times more effective as a reporter," said April, as she balled up the Kleenex and dropped it into Irma's wastebasket. "They're sleek and aerodynamic, allowing me to move faster and to squeeze into smaller spaces. They've got lots of pockets, which allows me to prepare for virtually any situation. They drip dry, so I won't catch cold if I get wet. They look cute on me, which will make people trust me _and_ underestimate me. And their bright yellow color ensures that people will remember me when awards season rolls around."

April's friends just stared.

"Words fail," Vernon said, at last, as he raised his coffee cup once again to his lips.

"Well, okay," said Irma, throwing up her manicured hands in mock surrender. "Far be it from me to try to influence a big banana."

The discussion of April's fashion sense might have continued, but the intercom on Irma's desk buzzed loudly, and Irma practically jumped to hit the button.

"Yes, chief?" she said into the speaker.

"Irma, has April come in yet?" asked the edgy, impatient voice of Charles Pennington.

"Just this very second," Irma replied, with a wink to April.

"Well, send her in, will you? I've got a damn fiasco on my hands, and it's her fault!"

"Right away, chief," said Irma, removing her finger from the button and breaking the connection.

"My condolences," said Vernon.

"Don't count me out yet," said April, as she set her unfinished coffee down on Irma's desk and braced herself for her march into the boss' office, chest out and shoulders back.

* * *

"Morning, Charles!" said April, brightly, as she bounced into the office and closed the door behind her.

"April, what in the damn hell do you call this?" Charles growled right away, brandishing a video tape in his hand.

"Well, if it's the tape you got from me, then it's my contribution to the mini-series we're running on mob violence," said April, calmly.

"Oh, is it?" said Charles. "Well, let's just take a look at it, shall we?"

Charles rose from his desk, stalked over to the corner of his office, and popped the tape into a player connected to a small TV. The image that came up was grainy black-and-white footage of a gas station at night. Three extremely mean-looking thugs were loitering around a car, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.

"Those are known members of the Purple Dragon street gang," April pointed out.

"Oh, I've no doubt they are," said Charles. "Or were."

Charles' last point was illustrated when everything in the foreground of the shot – the gas pump, the car, and the Purple Dragons – burst into flames. Charles let the tape run while he and April watched the thugs run around wildly, waving their arms and screaming, until they finally collapsed to the pavement, unmoving and still ablaze. As a final note of punctuation, the car's engine exploded. At this point, Charles paused the tape.

"Well?" he said, turning to April, hands on hips.

"Well what?" April shrugged. "Call me crazy, but I thought a bunch of gangbangers getting knocked off seemed relevant to our theme."

"I didn't see anybody getting knocked off," said Charles. "All I saw was some idiots waving an open flame around a bunch of gasoline."

"Oh, no, Charles, this was definitely a killing," said April, digging into one of her vaunted pockets. "Take a look at this."

April tossed something metallic down onto Charles' desk. Upon closer inspection, it was a star-shaped object with extremely sharp points.

"It's called a _shuriken_ , or throwing star, and it's used by ninja assassins," April explained. "I found it at the scene. I think it must have been used to puncture something that sprayed gas all over the guy with the cigarette."

"Ninja assassins?!" Charles exclaimed. "Are you being serious right now?"

"Furthermore, I don't think the ninja was human," April went on. "Look back at the screen."

Charles did so, and April pointed to a blurry shadow just at the edge of the paused image.

"Definitely someone there, but look at the proportions," she said. "Large, rounded back, not much of a neck, head shaped like a football. That's a mutant, or I'm Megan Fox."

"Again with the damn mutants!" Charles, exasperated, collapsed back into his chair and removed his glasses in order to rub his eyes. "April, I like you. I think you're a hell of a reporter. I could even see you becoming an anchor someday."

"Well, I'm flattered, Charles," said April, "but I don't think I'd ever want to be an anchor. I love field work way too much."

"But I need more from you than the crap you've been phoning in these past few weeks!" Charles continued, ignoring the interruption. "We're two days away from airing our mob special, and you bring me toys, a shadow, and this...this Bigfoot video! We're getting our ass kicked in the 18-to-49 demographic, and if we lose anymore ground to Channel 3, Burne Thompson is going to have my balls in a vice!"

April cringed. Sixty-two years old and all of five feet tall, network president Burne Thompson was feared and...well, feared by everyone who worked at Channel 6. Legend had it that he had once put an umbrella up the backside of the first-billed star of _John and Marsha_ , and opened it.

April took a deep breath, folded her hands in front of her, and tried to seem as sympathetic as possible.

"I'm sorry there's trouble, Charles," she said. "But you must know that I really respect you as my boss and as a senior newsman, and I would never, ever do anything to show you up or humiliate you with your superiors. I promise you, Charles, this is _real_. Mutants _exist_. I'm _so_ close to being able to prove it definitively. I've been putting pieces together for months! Remember the Triceraton invasion a few years ago?"

"Vividly," said Charles, looking down at his desk as he massaged his temples.

"Well, not to disrespect our troops, but I have reason to believe it was a fighting force of mutants who struck the decisive blow against those creeps," said April. "After all, it wasn't the National Guard that got all the way up to that mothership and blew it up."

"April..."

"And what about that weirdo from last year?" said April. "The nutcase from the sewers who tried to take over the city by flooding it with rats? I have eyewitnesses who will swear to seeing large, reptilian creatures running around amidst all that chaos."

"April, I don't want to hear it!" Charles shut her down. "This isn't the History Channel, okay? We haven't yet given over all of our programming to aliens who built pyramids and ghosts who attended the first Thanksgiving! By this time tomorrow I need you back in this office, with usable footage, or I can't guarantee your next paycheck! Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," April sighed, head bowed.

"Good," said Charles, exhaling loudly. "Good. You know I don't like taking this tack with my employees, April."

"I know, Charles."

"I don't like being the bad guy."

"You're not a bad guy, Charles."

"But I just can't have one of my best reporters spending all of her time and this network's resources chasing weather balloons and searching for giant alligators in the sewers. You understand that, don't you?"

"Of course, Charles," said April, deciding not to mention the giant alligator she had heard was living in the sewers.

"Okay," said Charles. "I'm glad we're on the same page. Now go on out there and do what you do best. Forget about all this mutant stuff."

"You got it, chief," said April, without an ounce of sincerity, as she turned to leave.

* * *

"So, how did it go?" asked Vernon, still loitering at Irma's desk, as April emerged from Charles' office. "Do you have your own monster-hunting show yet? _April O'Neil Meets the Urban Jungle_?"

"Bite me, Vern," said April.

"That well, eh?" Vernon smirked. "Color me shocked."

"What are you going to do?" asked Irma.

"Word from a source of mine is that Pinky McFingers' gang has some kind of arms deal going down tonight on the Lower East Side," said April. "Well, I'll be there too, and I'm going to catch a mutant on camera like a deer in headlights."

"And what if you don't?" asked Vernon.

"Well," April mused, "then I guess I just won't be coming back into work. If that happens, Irma, be a love and mail me my final check."

"We'll miss you," Vernon said to April's retreating back, as he and Irma watched her power-walk across the floor towards the bank of elevators.

"Dibs on her UV lamp," said Irma.

 **Chapter III**

A huge and impressive leftover from the Greek Revival period of architecture, United Savings Bank in Midtown Manhattan was eight stories tall, done mostly in white marble, with vaulted roof and towering pillars. Millions of dollars flowed through every day, but finance, though supremely important, was not its only purpose, and the extensive remodeling over the years had endowed the grand old building with impenetrable steel walls on all sides, deadly security measures guarding every possible point of access, hidden facilities for combat training and weapons development, and underground tunnels leading out in all directions.

"So, you own a bank," Eric Sacks observed, as his new benefactor led him up the marble steps and through the revolving door that led into the lobby.

"Among other things," said Oroku Saki, with a sly, sideways grin. "It's not the surface aspect of this place that will concern you, of course. Now, before we go any further, you are indeed certain that you can still procure for me the materials upon which we agreed, in spite of your fugitive status?"

"I assure you, it won't be a problem," Sacks affirmed. "I still have people I trust, and they can deliver the goods."

"Just fine," said Saki, as he and Sacks finally reached the other side of the vast lobby and arrived at the bank of elevators. "Well, then, let me show you around a bit."

* * *

Their first stop was a sprawling subterranean laboratory the size of a parking garage, and built like one too; a cavern of concrete and steel, littered with thick cables, hi-tech equipment, and the dissected carcasses of what looked like highly advanced robots. All around, technicians in lab coats and safety goggles were scurrying from table to table and workspace to workspace, applying lasers, blowtorches, and blasts of electric current where necessary. At the epicenter of all the chaos, a short black man in thick bifocals hunched over a computer, seemingly oblivious to everything that wasn't happening right then and there on his monitor.

"Mr. Sacks, this is Dr. Baxter Stockman," Saki introduced the diminutive scientist. "He's been with the company for a long time now."

"Would I were afforded the respect of a senior employee," Stockman groused, spinning in his chair to face the newcomers. "Why are you undermining me by bringing in this...this pseudo-scientist? This boardroom jockey?"

"Because Mr. Sacks' talents exceed your apparent expectation of them," said Saki, fixing Stockman with a stern gaze. "And because he has access to Triceraton technology, and you do not. And because your robots have failed me in the past, Stockman."

Stockman gulped almost imperceptibly, but decided to go against conventional wisdom and continue speaking.

"The resources and manpower at my disposal are considerably more than last time," he said, managing to defend himself and praise his employer's ongoing faith in him simultaneously. "We won't let you down. In any event, welcome to the organization, Mr. Sacks."

With that, Stockman extended a robotic right hand for Sacks to shake. It hung in the air between the two men for a few awkward seconds. Then Sacks cleared his throat diplomatically and took the artificial appendage in his own.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm...er, sorry about the hand."

"Don't be," Stockman sniffed, haughtily. "It works just as well as yours."

With that, Stockman turned back to his computer.

"I think I committed a bit of a _faux pas_ back there," said Sacks, after he and Saki had traveled away from Stockman's earshot. "Tell me, how did he lose the hand?"

"I tore it off," Saki answered.

Sacks searched the man's face for any indication that he was kidding, but could find none.

"You won't have to worry about that little prick, however," Saki assured him. "His work is completely separate from yours. Now, if you'll accompany me down another floor, there's still more to see."

* * *

One level below the laboratory was a huge, state-of-the-art gymnasium, large enough to train a small army, and equipped with all manner of athletic accouterments that Sacks had ever heard of, as well as much more that he hadn't. About sixty feet away, he beheld a group of approximately thirty young men – all in their late teens to early twenties, all very physically fit, and of diverse ethnicity – assembled in a circle, forming a ring in which two of their peers sparred.

"This is where the combat element of our organization does most of its training," said Saki.

When one of the two young men presently succeeded in felling the other, a bulky, bald-headed Japanese in a black _gi_ stepped forward, and the circle opened to allow him entrance.

"Hattori Tatsu is an old friend of mine from Japan," said Saki. "He and I studied in the same school."

Sacks watched as Tatsu and the previously triumphant student bowed to each other. Then Tatsu swiftly closed the gap between himself and his young opponent with a flurry of fast kicks, jabs, and lunges, all of which the student parried successfully.

"Good," rumbled Tatsu, stepping back.

The student bowed, then Tatsu's foot came flying up without warning to kick the student in the head, sending him flying backward and crashing down onto his back. A few of the spectators suppressed gasps of surprise, while Tatsu walked over to the fallen youth and knelt down beside him.

"Never lower your eyes to an enemy," he imparted.

"Y-yes, Master Tatsu," groaned the student, dazed and dribbling blood.

"Tatsu is the best _sensei_ the men have ever had," said Saki, proudly.

"Yes, he seems to have a real rapport with them," Sacks deadpanned.

"Father," said a female voice, from the direction of the elevators.

Saki and Sacks turned away from the ongoing sparring to see a young Japanese woman coming toward them. She was tall and lithe and muscular, with long black hair and a cruel, hard face. She was dressed in a black suit of body armor, and a sheathed _katana_ dangled from her left hip.

"Karai," Saki greeted her. "I'm glad you're here. This is Eric Sacks, our newest acquisition. Mr. Sacks, this is Karai, my daughter. She's my second-in-command, and an invaluable facet of our organization."

Sacks extended his hand, but Karai merely nodded to him, curtly, then turned, with a respectful bow, to Saki.

"Stockman reports robot assembly at peak productivity," she said. "He's also manufacturing M.O.U.S.E.R.S., however. He told me that you'd given him the go-ahead, and I told him I'd check with you. I thought you had written them off as ineffective after last time."

"I authorized a limited batch," said Saki. "They do have their uses."

"Very well," said Karai, deferentially. "And Senator Winters has been in contact through the usual channels. All bureaucratic roadblocks have been removed."

"Senator Max Winters?" Sacks interjected, unable to hide his surprise.

"Another asset to the organization," Saki smiled. "Thanks to his contribution, the authorities will not be raiding your company anytime soon."

"Astounding," Sacks mumbled.

"And your two o'clock is waiting for you in the usual reception area," said Karai.

Saki consulted his twenty-three thousand dollar Rolex.

"Well, it's only five past," he observed. "I'm sure they can wait while I give Mr. Sacks the rest of the tour."

"The _deep_ reception area, Father," Karai elaborated.

"Ah," said Saki. "That does make a difference. Mr. Sacks, it's been a pleasure. I have the utmost faith that you, too, will become an asset to the company. I leave you now in my daughter's capable hands. She will acquaint you with everything else you need to know."

With that, Saki headed back towards the elevators. Sacks watched him go, his stride sure and powerful.

"Bit of an odd bird," Sacks mused.

"A great man," said Karai.

"Oh, no doubt," Sacks hastened to agree. "Intelligent, prolific, and with influence seemingly everywhere. How is it that I'd never heard of him before?"

"One does not hear of Oroku Saki unless Oroku Saki wishes it be so," said Karai. "However, I think that will change soon enough. I think, in short time, the whole world will know my father's name."

* * *

Its inventor had aptly named it the Tubular Transport. It was an elevator inside of a tube hundreds of feet long, and the tube would burrow up, up, up through the earth, courtesy of the enormous drill attached to its head, until it reached its usual rendezvous point with Oroku Saki. Then, with Saki inside, the tube would retract smoothly through the tunnel it had created, all the way back down to its subterranean origin point. It wasn't Saki who stepped out of the Tubular Transport again, however, but a different man entirely; a man dressed in a black bodysuit that was part Kevlar, part traditional Japanese ninja garb, with terrifying, pointed blades protruding from steel fixtures on the shins, knees, shoulders, and forearms. Two long, razor-sharp points extended from each wrist, and his head and face were obscured by a steel helm and mouthpiece. A dark purple cape affixed to his collar completed the sinister ensemble.

Thirty feet in front of him, in this vast underground cavern amply illuminated by artificial light, stood a very large man, roughly ten feet in height, and four feet wide at the waist, clad in nothing but a pair of red briefs from which extended legs as massive as tree trunks. But this was not a man; this was an android. A giant robotic body that housed, in the cavity of its belly, a grotesque creature that looked like a pink blob with big yellow eyes, a mouth full of needlepoint teeth, and two long, prehensile tendrils extending from what one would suppose to be the creature's chin.

Emperor Krang, exiled alien warlord from Dimension X.

"In need of more mutagen so soon, Saki?" said Krang, in a voice that sounded like a cross between a squeal and a belch. "You're going through this stuff like water, you know."

"It has a houseful of uses," said Saki. "And I told you, when I'm dressed like this, call me the Shredder."

"Whatever, whatever," said Krang, and the android, responding to Krang's telepathic cues, waved a huge hand, dismissively. "I find it ironic, though. Sixteen years ago I gave you your first cannister of this stuff, and you used it to create your own worst enemies."

"I was naive back then, I admit it," said Shredder. "I didn't understand how the mutagen worked. In trying to destroy my old enemy, I only made him stronger than ever. But I've learned a lot since then; particularly during my downtime this past year. All necessary precautions will be taken. There will be no mistakes this time."

Whatever Krang's opinion of Shredder's prospects for success, he kept it to himself. With a telepathic nudge, he commanded his android body to pick up a cannister the size of a propane tank and hand it to Shredder, who accepted it and turned to go. Halfway back to the Tubular Transport, however, Shredder, ever wary of seeming to get something for nothing, turned back to face the bizarre alien.

"Just what do you get out of all this, anyway?" he asked. "Why do you continue to supply me with mutagen? Come to that, why do you stay down here at all? You have weapons and resources that far surpass even that which the Triceratons brought with them. Surely you could conquer this world. You'd been down here for ages before I even met you. How do you stand it?"

Krang smiled a smile that wrapped nearly entirely around what one would call his head.

"Your understanding of time is different from mine," he explained. "I have abided down here for many of your Earth centuries, but in my home dimension, only mere days have passed. When I am ready, you and all of your kind shall know it. Until then, however, I shall wait."

Shredder narrowed his eyes, and reflected on the likelihood that he would surely have to do something about Krang someday. Indeed, he had already taken measures towards such an eventuality. As Krang himself had observed, however, now was not the time.

"But truly, good luck with whatever it is you're doing, Saki," Krang called after Shredder, as the armored man arrived back at the Tubular Transport and stepped once more inside. "Goodness knows the things you get up to are a constant source of amusement."

 **Chapter IV**

In an otherwise abandoned shipping yard on the East River, in the lowest part of the Lower East Side, Pinky McFingers, longtime head of the Irish mob, was checking his watch for the umpteenth time. Quarter past one in the morning. Where in blue hell were the Purple Dragons with the goods?

"I don't like this, boss," said Jersey Red, a heavyset, leather-clad woman, with a thick mane of curly red hair and piercings all over her face.

"Patience, Red," said Pinky, although he was feeling damned anxious himself. "The fact is, we need these weapons. The Italians have been hammering us into the ground. I don't like making deals with outsiders anymore than you do, but our backs are up against it."

Pinky was a godfather of organized crime; strong, used to getting his way, and far from being enamored with having to go, hat-in-hand, to scum like the Purple Dragons for his very survival. He was a bulky man, bald-headed, but with a huge red beard that would have made Santa Claus jealous, and each of his eleven fingers – the impetus for his nickname, naturally – were festooned with obscene amounts of bejeweled and golden rings.

"We're doing this for the same reason that we've had to fill out our ranks with mutants," Pinky went on. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"Fuckin' mutants," Jersey Red grunted, with a shake of her head. "Hirin' 'em from outside is bad enough, but did ya have to turn Mad Dog into one?"

"I didn't hold a gun to his head," said Pinky. "He wanted to do it. Mad Dog has always been an animal at heart; now he gets to be one on the outside too."

"Well, I still don't like it," said Jersey Red. "Used to be that bein' human put you at the top of the food chain in this world. Now the animals are getting better than us."

"Adapt or die," Pinky observed. "That's how we're going to beat Don Vizioso. He's gotten fat and complacent. We're gonna stay sharp, and we're gonna annihilate that wop bastard." He checked his watch again. "If those damned Purple Dragons ever get here, that is."

From her hiding place behind a crane fifty yards away, April O'Neil shared Pinky's anxiety. If this deal wasn't going down after all – if there was zero percent chance of catching any action on film, let alone evidence of mutants – then it would be back to the noon traffic report for her.

The roar of an engine and the squealing of tires emanating from the north side of the yard finally broke the night's tense, brooding silence, and, to the relief of both Pinky McFingers and April O'Neil, a battered Volkswagen Bus, its sides emblazoned with paintings of snarling, serpentine dragons, trundled onto the scene. As the van's door slid loudly open, April double-checked the charge on her camera, then focused it on the truly enormous thug who emerged first from the vehicle.

"So, are we doing this or what?" Pinky asked the thug, irritably.

Hunter "the Hun" Mason – seven feet tall if he was an inch, bulging with muscle, and sporting a blonde crewcut that turned into a long ponytail at the back – stepped down from the van and cracked the knuckles on his ham-sized fist.

"Had to take a couple trips around the block," he explained. "Thought we might've picked up a tail. We've been havin' a lotta trouble with you-know-who lately, just like you have."

"Fine," said Pinky. "Let's just see the goods. And they'd better all work this time. One of those...whadda ya call it...those photon blasters you sold us with the last batch backfired on one of my boys, and now he don't think so good."

Hun smirked, and snapped his meaty fingers. On cue, two other Purple Dragons jumped out of the van, hustled around to the back, and threw open the doors to reveal a large wooden crate.

"We're dealing with alien technology here," said Hun, as his two subordinates hefted the crate to the ground and began to pry it open for Pinky's benefit. "Nobody really knows how this Triceraton crap works. At a certain point, it's buyer beware. You want the stuff or not?"

"Yeah, I want the stuff," said Pinky. "Red, go get the man his money."

Jersey Red shot a surly look at Hun, but turned without comment to extract a briefcase from the car in which she and Pinky had arrived earlier. She handed the briefcase to Pinky, who handed it to Hun, who shoved it at one of his subordinates.

"Count it," he commanded.

 _Oh, come on!_ April complained to herself, as she watched the transaction take place smoothly and without incident. _This can't be all there is. Boring footage like this wouldn't even get a decent number of hits on YouTube!_

A sudden flash of something shiny at the edge of her lens. April panned up in the direction of the glint and saw that the moonlight had reflected off of something metallic atop the roof of the warehouse twenty yards back from where Pinky and Hun's deal was going down. There was no glint now, but it had drawn her attention to the eerie, unmistakable sight of three or four weird, shadowy figures perched up there.

 _That's got to be them!_ thought April, training her camera on the dark, still silhouettes, in a vain effort to get a better shot. _But why aren't they doing anything? Are they just here to observe? Are they planning on following after the deal is complete? That's not good enough! I need clear, definitive footage, or Charles'll crucify me!_

With the rooftop watchers still not moving to take action, April took stock of everything she had heard about these enigmatic vigilantes, including their seemingly compulsive propensity for doing good and their overwhelming effectiveness against their enemies, and ran through a quick evaluation of risk versus reward for the fiasco she was pondering creating. Then, steeling herself and swallowing her fear, she stepped boldly out from behind the crane, camera in hand and still rolling, and advanced on the gangsters, calling out as she did so.

"Um...excuse me!" she hollered. "Excuse me! I'm April O'Neil, with Channel 6 News, and I was just wondering if one of you could tell me a bit about what's going on here."

Startled and confused, all of the gangsters turned their heads to stare at April.

"We're putting together a mini-series on mob violence," said April, drawing dangerously close to their midst now, "and I'd love to get some quotes from the horse's mouth!"

Hun was the first to recover from the surprise. While his two subordinates yanked pistols from their waistbands and leveled them at April, the Dragons' leader produced a loaded bazooka from somewhere inside the van and aimed it at Pinky.

"Who's she?!" he demanded to know. "Is she with you?! Is this a set-up?!"

"You stop pointing that thing at me this instant!" Pinky shouted back, as he and Jersey Red whipped out their own weapons and aimed them at the Dragons.

"Is this a double-cross? Answer me!" Hun snarled.

"Mason, think!" said Pinky. "What would I be doing with a TV news reporter? She's obviously not with either of us!"

"All right, all right, just gimme a second!" Hun snapped.

Everyone stood stock still while Hun closed his eyes and ran a huge hand over his face and up through his short hair. Then the brute exhaled sharply and loudly, like an engine letting off steam, and lowered the bazooka.

"Okay," he said, at last. "We're cool. I apologize for my unprofessional lapse just now. We're all on edge. If it's not the Shredder hounding us, it's those other freaks. They've got us jumping at shadows."

"Understandable," said Pinky, as he and Jersey Red likewise lowered their weapons. "Now, before we wrap up here, would you like to do the honors?"

"Gladly," said Hun, with a wicked grin, as he turned to his subordinates. "Spike! Malo! Kill that stupid bitch!"

April squealed in terror and recoiled reflexively, but the order was barely out of Hun's mouth before something sharp and pointy came whirling down through the night sky and embedded itself in the back of the gunhand belonging to the punk called Malo. Malo screamed something in Spanish and dropped his gun, while a _bolo_ rope wrapped itself around Spike, binding his arms to his sides and knocking him to the ground. In the same three seconds' time during which this took place, one of the strange figures from the rooftop landed squarely on top of Hun's shoulders, driving the big thug face-first into the pavement.

"How's that asphalt taste?" asked the Dragon leader's assailant, as he performed a neat forward flip off of Hun's shoulder blades and landed expertly on his feet, in the open now, and illuminated amply by the lights shining down on the yard.

Retaining her presence of mind, April brought her camera once more to bear, focusing it squarely on the bizarre creature that now stood just a few yards away from her. It was compact and muscular, a little over five feet tall, with dark green skin and what looked like a big shell on its back. It was promptly joined by three others that appeared almost identical, although each was wearing a different colored mask wrapped around its eyes; blue, red, purple, and orange.

"I _knew_ it!" April exclaimed, under her breath.

"It's those turtle freaks!" snarled Pinky, hefting his gun once more. "Kill them!"

The Uzi clenched in Pinky's hands spewed hot lead into the center of the yard, but the turtles were no longer there. Indeed, they had split up to deal with the multiple threats in efficient and practiced fashion. While Red and Orange went to finish up Hun and the Dragons, Blue and Purple advanced on the Irish contingent.

"I knew it, I knew it, I _knew_ it!" April jumped up and down, excitedly, as she recorded every second of the action.

A wooden staff wielded by Purple caught Jersey Red in the belly, and she went down like a sack of potatoes, while Blue cartwheeled up to Pinky, drew a long sword from a scabbard strapped to his shell, and used the blade to slice the gangster's gun in half.

"We told you what would happen if you didn't give it up, Pinky," growled Blue, brandishing the sword menacingly. "Any last requests?"

"Just one," said Pinky, with a confident smirk. "I'd like you to meet a new old friend of mine."

A big shipping crate came flying in from the other side of the yard then, and smashed down in the center of the action, catching everyone (except Pinky) off guard, and April screamed and dove for cover behind a palette of barrels. Leaping in just after the crate, feet hitting the ground with a heavy thud, was a new combatant; a hulking, canine-like creature, even bigger than Hun, with orange and white fur, pointed ears, and hard, jagged spikes protruding from its spine, shoulders, and forearms.

"You remember my associate Mad Dog McMutt," said Pinky. "Well, his name is Dogpound now. Because he's a dog, and he's gonna pound ya!"

The big, furry mutant laughed through huge, glistening teeth, and lunged at Blue, who quickly flipped out of the way and fell into a practiced fighter's stance, both swords drawn now.

"Man, they sure don't get any prettier, do they?" said Orange, as he propelled Malo into the side of a forklift with a powerful kick. "I guess we were just lucky."

"I'm gonna mangle you green slimeballs!" Hun bellowed, as his massive fist passed inches from Orange's head and smashed into the van instead, making a sizable dent.

"Hey, what's your problem, pal?" said Red, as he grabbed Hun from behind by both arms and pinned them to his back. "Y'know, if I had a face like yours, I'd try to make up for it with some kind of a personality! Hey, Mikey! Ninja sandwich!"

Red kneed Hun hard in the small of the back then, kicking him over to Orange, who intercepted him in the gut with his shell. Hun let out a groan that sounded like a wounded buffalo, crashed against the van, and slumped to the ground.

"I've always wanted to fire one of these things," said Red, as he knelt down to pick up the bazooka that Hun had dropped. "Now, let's see, how do you...?"

"I think you're supposed to look through that little hole," said Orange, who was finishing up gift-wrapping Spike and Malo for the police.

"Oh, yeah, I got it," said Red. "Okay, here goes!"

Eyes and mouth wide open in alarm, April watched through the eye of her camera as Red pulled the trigger and the rocket whistled through the air, caught Dogpound in the stomach, and propelled the huge mutant off his feet, across the yard, and into the East River. There was a tremendous splash as both Dogpound and the rocket disappeared beneath the oily surface, followed quickly by an explosion that sent water erupting upwards like a geyser to soak the area.

"Raph, what in the actual hell?!" shouted Blue.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" said Red. "And you're welcome."

"Ninjas don't fight with bazookas!" Blue protested. " _Ninjutsu_ is the art of invisibility! Bazookas are the _opposite_ of invisibility!"

"Leo, in all fairness, that was pretty awesome," said Purple.

"It was, wasn't it?" Blue conceded, grudgingly. "Okay, well, somebody get Pinky and we can clear out of here."

"No go, bro," said Orange, with a shake of his head. "The crummy coward split on us."

Blue looked over to where Pinky McFingers' car had been parked, and saw that it was indeed gone.

"Damn," he said. "This has been something less than a homerun victory all around."

"You guys, that was incredible!" exclaimed April, running out from behind her hiding place and up to the gathered turtles, film still rolling. "Who are you? Where do you come from? Can I get you to come in for a studio interview?"

"Who's she?" asked Orange.

"I don't understand what's happening right now," said Purple.

"I'm April O'Neil, from Channel 6 News," said April. "And I'm the lady who's going to make you famous! I got the whole thing on film!"

Without a second's hesitation, Blue thrust his sword straight through April's camera, impaling it like a marshmallow on a stick.

"Not anymore, you don't," he said.

"Hey! You can't do that!" April protested, indignantly. "I have my First Amendment rights!"

"You also have the right to remain silent," said Red, arms crossed, angrily. "I suggest you exercise it."

"A reporter!" Orange moaned, as he slapped a three-fingered hand against his forehead. "Master Splinter is _so_ going to kill us!"

"Well, you're the leader, Leo," said Purple. "What do we do?"

Though April stood several inches taller than the turtles, she couldn't help but wither a bit as the blue one fixed her with an icy, unblinking glare. Finally, with the sound of police sirens blaring in the distance, he gave his order.

"She's coming with us," he said.


End file.
